Crack Beyond Measure is Man's Greatest Pleasure
by esking
Summary: A mysterious man left for dead in a London alleyway, bearing a mysterious tattoo and refusing to give them more than his name. Sherlock's dream come true. Shameless crack.


**Basically, I was bored and stuck sitting between a Supernatural fangirl and a Sherlock fangirl. Which is not the healthiest situation in which to find oneself, but you know how life goes.**

**It should be noted that I put my friends names in this, but have changed them for the posting of this. So we have Lucy, Tenn, and Rachel.**

The man came to a few minutes after John Watson found him. He was now sitting partially upright, slumped against the back wheel of the black Chevy next to which he'd been lying.

He had a deep, bloody gash over his eye, which John had bandaged with his portable medical kit, and several nasty bruises all along his exposed forearms. Now that his eyes were open, John saw that they were a bright, piercing green, though still a little glassy.

The man's head rolled against his shoulder as he tried to turn it. "Nnn…" he mumbled. "Sammy? Where…?"

"You're American," John said in surprise, then winced at the obviousness of the statement, a trait of his of which Sherlock had always been most scornful.

"Yeah," said the man, blinking and seeming to become more clear-headed. "No shit, Sherlock."

"Oh no." John gave a little laugh. "I'm John. John Watson. Sherlock's on his way."

The man stared at him for a moment. "_What?_"

**oOo**

Sherlock Holmes, being Sherlock Holmes, loved enigmas, and the man to whom John introduced him - standing but leaning heavily on the boot of a 1967 Chevrolet Impala - was beautiful.

Every American-accented word out of his mouth sent the gears in the detective's head spinning madly. He refused to go to the hospital, despite John's vehement protests, as a more thorough investigation of his body revealed that his tan, well-muscled chest was torn up by a cross-hatch of yet more deep gashes - three in a row, like those caused by an animal's claws, Sherlock observed.

He refused, too, to allow John to patch him up at the flat, insisting time and again like a broken record that he had to go, had to find his brother.

After what nearly became a heated argument, the man finally conceded to let John dress his chest, which was also adorned with an ink blue sun, framing a pentagram.

During the process, Sherlock and John learned that the man's name was Dean. He said he hadn't seen who attacked him, and didn't remember anything after whoever it was had clocked him on the head.

He was an excellent liar, Sherlock had to admit, almost on par with Sherlock himself. But he could still tell. The man knew exactly who had attacked him.

_Or what_, his mind supplied, recalling the animal-like qualities of the wounds. Getting Dean to say, however, was another matter entirely. Time to test the waters.

"You're a pagan," he said matter-of-factly.

Dean looked up at him, eyes narrowed as though regarding someone speaking a foreign language. "Huh?"

Sherlock gestured to the American's chest - noting John's poorly concealed look of jealousy, and filing it away for future examination - and said, "That's a pagan anti-possession symbol."

"This old thing?" said Dean dismissively, shrugging and then wincing as the movement tugged at his wound. "Got it on a dare in college when I was drunk. 'S nothin'."

He was lying again. "you have salt and Borax in your right jacket pocket, both traditionally used in repelling demons. There's a flask of holy water in the other pocket, and you're wearing a traditional Christo-pagan amulet. Not to mention that beneath the false bottom in your car is an entire arsenal of weapons thought to be used to kill the unholy which walk the earth."

At this, Dean scoffed. "_What?_" he said with a disbelieving laugh. "Christo-pagan, what does that even mean?"

"You know perfectly well what it means," said Sherlock impatiently. "It means that Lucy is wearing no pants, and she must acquire Ianto Jones cosplay items tomorrow when Sam and Dean go to make out with their respective angels - erm- shop for man clothes.

"Also, Tenn changed her name to Benny, which is weird because that means she's desperately in love with herself…ahem…"

Dean stared up at the detective. "What the _hell?_"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Sorry. I have no idea where that came from. It's almost like a Superwholock fangirl was really bored and had nothing better to do than make me say random stuff. Because I am Sherlock Holmes, I know that her name is Rachel, but she's actually a supremely sexy male named Sam Winchester. Who has a great chest. It should be illegal for the Winchesters to wear shirts."

John blinked in surprise. "Sherlock, are you feeling alright?"

Sherlock coughed once more. "No, John. I'm really not. I do believe this world _has _in fact been taken over by a mad fangirl." He widened his eyes dramatically. "We're all doomed.

"And there's one more thing," he added. "I've loved you since the beginning, and the only reason I haven't shagged you yet is Moffat has a cruel sense of humor. Well, John," he was practically shouting now. "Screw Moffat!" (Dean coughed sheepishly). Sherlock grabbed John's face and kissed him full on the lips. Dean retreat discreetly from the room. However, on the stairwell he found himself face to face with Castiel.

"There's no point in fighting it, Dean," said Cas in his gravelly, sexy voice. "The fangirl is out of control. I've tried to stop her, but I just can't." And he kissed Dean. Then the world exploded in joyful bliss. Then there was a unicorn. It stabbed someone with its horn and went home to Joss Whedon.

The end.


End file.
